


And My Beloved is Mine

by mokuyoubi



Series: A Great and Gruesome Height [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Hannibal, Declarations Of Love, Devoted Will, Emotional Hannibal, Emotional Sex, M/M, Murder Husbands, Needy Hannibal, POV Hannibal, Post-Finale, Will can be an oblivious dick, but can be read as stand-alone, part of a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:36:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will confesses his love to Hannibal, to both their surprise. Chapter 17 of A Great and Gruesome Height from Hannibal's pov. This can easily be read as a post-finale stand-alone fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And My Beloved is Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TriadAnon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriadAnon/gifts).



> For the prompt: A Great and Gruesome Height (any part) from Hannibal's perspective. Especially if he's all pathetic and insecure.  
> Hope this counts, bb :D
> 
> (AKA, why Thursday never writes from Hannibal's POV)

The scent of saltwater and oil lubricant heralds Will’s arrival home. It lies underneath the more pervasive briney whiff of the fish he carries. There is a faint sting of ammonia on the air, as it has already begun to undergo aminic breakdown. Tuna, he believes, confirmed when Will turns the corner and unceremoniously drops his catch on the counter, perilously close to Hannibal’s cutting board.

“You were underwhelmed by the tuna at Black Ginger the other day,” Will says. “So now you can do it better.”

Hannibal had said nothing of his opinion at the time, though he is unsurprised that Will read his distaste in his expression. The fish Will has brought him is firm and far fresher than what that restaurant had thought acceptable to serve, especially considering the oceanfront setting.

He pointedly slides his cutting board further from the tuna. Will has no regard for such things in the kitchen--it’s a wonder he's survived forty-odd years without succumbing to food poisoning. “The chicken can marinate another day,” he says. 

In his mind palace, Hannibal can revisit every meal he’s cared to catalogue over the years, and he peruses them now. There was a particularly delightful dish at a little shack in Argentina, run by a kindly, half-blind little Abuela. He can almost imagine Will with him there, in that memory; shame that no doubt that restaurant is long gone, but he can recreate the dish now.

Garlic, ginger, jalapeno, cilantro... “Would you go pick a couple of mangoes?” he asks of Will. He is half-lost in that room of his mind, where he can still taste that particular blend of flavours on his tongue.

Salsa first--the onion will serve just as well in this dish as in the other he had planned. He adds it to heated oil along with the fresh ginger. Will comes in, sniffing the mangoes, eyes closed in pleasure. Hannibal finds himself caught off-guard by the very presence of him, as he often is these days. He merely drinks in the sight of Will before him, real and vibrant. Here by choice and content with that. 

It is times like this, when Hannibal allows himself to linger too long on thoughts of their shared history and the path that has brought them to this moment, that he finds himself struggling to accept this as reality. Not that he fears he has wandered too long and far into the labyrinthine corridors of his mind and become lost, only that what they have created here is too good to be true.

Will surveys the job he’s done with the mangoes and pulls a face. Hannibal glances into the bowl, taking in the uneven, slightly mashed cubes. “It's for the salsa. It hardly matters what it looks like,” he assures.

“Gee, thanks.” Will rolls his eyes, perhaps thinking Hannibal can’t see the gesture, focussed as he is on the task of mincing the garlic. “I guess I'll just fuck off then.”

Any excuse to escape working in the kitchen, and generally Hannibal indulges him, but today Will’s mood is infectious. With a spark of mischievousness and a smirk, Hannibal gestures to the jalapeno. “That still needs mincing.”

Will gives him a rebellious look from under his lashes. “I seriously have no concept how to possibly accomplish that,” he mutters. 

Hannibal raises an unimpressed brow, and Will folds under his gaze. In the end, the jalapeno turns out alright, but then Hannibal already knew that would be the case; he’s far less surprised at Will’s success than Will is himself. Always underestimating his own abilities, his dear Will.

Finished with his task, Will makes no move to leave again. Hannibal is aware of those lovely, ever-changing eyes following him as he goes about the task of sautéing the onions. Hannibal has always thought of his movements as something akin to choreography, moving to the strains of the music he plays, whether real or imagined. Just as with any ballet, cooking is all about timing, and anything that is worth doing is worth doing with grace. Though perhaps his movements are a bit more lyrical and precise with Will watching him. 

When Hannibal removes the saucepan from the stove and pours it into the waiting bowl, Will can’t help himself. He risings up on his stool and leans across the counter, dipping his finger into the salsa. Half-heartedly Hannibal bats at his hand and clucks his tongue, but he doesn’t bother hiding his smile. There’s no sense in pretending that there’s anything Will could do for which Hannibal would honestly scold him. 

Will grins knowingly, sucking his finger between his lips in a truly salacious manner, eyes sparkling as he lets it go with a popping sound. Hannibal is only a man; he wasn’t made to resist such temptation. He stretches across the island, sinks a hand in Will’s hair and tugs him closer, licking past his lips. It is a delightful mingling of flavours, the bright, crisp cilantro, the sweetness of the mango and the savoury tang of garlic, and beneath it all Will’s flavour, heady and rich.

Hannibal brushes his lips along the curve of Will’s cheek. “Your kitchen etiquette is appalling,” he murmurs.

Will looks singularly unapologetic. “All good chefs taste their dishes.”

A sudden dark veil drops over Will’s face, as though he has travelled a thousand miles away in the span of an instant. Certainly he is no longer present with Hannibal in this moment. Hannibal can track the emotions playing across his features--surprised pleasure, contentment, and something more--a sort of melancholic longing. The moment hangs suspended like a soap bubble, ready to burst and take this whole world with it.

Then Will speaks, slowly and ponderously, and a voice in the back of Hannibal’s mind whispers, _this is it_. He turns away, taking his knives to the sink, gripping them perhaps too tightly, all too aware of what they could be used for. “I've been thinking,” Will says. “We've been here nearly a month.”

Hannibal glances up at him from the sink, expression bidding Will continue. Will leaps to his feet, a caged animal, pacing back and forth between the threshold of the dining room. 

“I know you've needed time to recover, and I know you've been giving me time, too,” Will says the words as he thinks them, not allowing himself to filter them, for fear of otherwise never being able to speak them out loud. 

There are a million ways he could finish this line of thinking, and in this moment, Hannibal can’t think of a single one that ends any way other than bloody. He steels himself and very purposefully sets aside the knives. He turns to watch Will, leaning back against the counter, and crossing his arms over his chest, holding tight to his own forearms against the urge to arm himself.

“Maybe you didn't think I meant what I said, or maybe you think I meant it at the time, but when it comes to practical application I'm not committed.” 

Will stops in his rambling and glances at Hannibal. Whatever he sees draws him up short. His eyes fall shut, the dark spread of lashes against his cheek a stark contrast in the light streaming through the windows. He swallows hard at the memory he has conjured behind his eyelids, his nostrils flare, his chest heaves. When he opens his eyes, they are a shade darker, full of desire and murderous intent. It is not what Hannibal was expecting, to say the least. “I want you to stop playing at being domesticated,” Will says. “I want you to come with me Antigua.”

Hannibal tells his foolish heart to stop racing at the implications and instead occupies himself with the task of preparing the tuna. “And what shall we do in Antigua?” he asks.

Will presses himself against the length of his back, breath hot through Hannibal’s shirt. How predictable he has come to be for Will. How easy it is for Will to read him. Will speaks in a low, seductive tone, fingers curling gently around Hannibal’s biceps, though his nails bite into the skin, “There are a lot bad people there. The sort of people that when they go missing, the cops thank their luck and move on.”

Hannibal focusses entirely on the tuna under his hands, refusing to allow his thoughts to wander. His eyes follow the blade as it slices through the flesh, leaving thin, almost translucent medallions. Will tucks his chin over Hannibal's shoulder and presses a kiss to his jaw, cajoling.

“Forgive my hesitance,” Hannibal says in clipped tones, ducking out of Will’s hold. He crosses the room, unwilling to meet Will’s gaze, aware of the space and obstacles between them. He is forcibly reminded of standing together in his kitchen in Maryland, Will’s curls damp from the rain, the scent of sweat and fear on the air, the warring hope, agony, and disbelief in his eyes upon finding Abigail there.

“It is only that I cannot help but recall the last time you brought me a slice of meat and suggested we kill someone together.”

A frustrated growl tears its way from Will’s throat as he takes up pacing again. “I didn't know we were still hanging on to that. Or am I supposed to still be making petty digs about you trying to get inside my head?”

The tension held along the line of Hannibal’s shoulders gives at that. It is so difficult to know at any given point in time whether Will is being earnest or calculating--he plays both with such guileless sincerity that even he must question his own motivations at times. Trusting such a creature as Will tests his will-power daily. Hannibal has never put his own fate in another’s hands, save Will’s, and thus far that decision has never ended well for him. 

Yet here they are. Maybe it is time that Hannibal accept the inevitability of it. He turns his head to the side to see Will leaning across the counter, eyes wide and pleading. “Please, Hannibal.” 

Hannibal can imagine him using that same voice with the wild animals he brings home, and he should bristle at the correlation, but he does not. He parts his lips to offer his capitulation.

The words never make it past his lips; Will speaks first. “I _love_ you. Let me share this with you again,” he says in an exasperated rush of breath.

The myriad conflicting emotions the exclamation inspires in Hannibal freezes him in place. Muted rage and breathless, hopeless longing war for dominance. He may as well be naked before Will, desperate need written clear in the stricken expression he wears. He glances up to find Will almost in a state of panic, staring at Hannibal in plain stunned disbelief.

Will’s promise never to use those words merely to appease Hannibal comes to mind. However he has never hesitated to say whatever necessary to get his way, where Hannibal is concerned. Hannibal himself has hardly set a good example, giving in readily to Will’s every desire for nothing more than a disingenuous smile and a _pretty please_. 

“I do not enjoy being emotionally manipulated,” Hannibal tells him.

Will sneers. “Well gosh, Hannibal, you do it so well yourself, I thought you might appreciate the effort.”

Hannibal surveys the distance between them. His fingers flex around the handle of his sashimi knife, considering. It takes no effort at all to bring to mind the feel of Will’s skin splitting open for him, of hot blood spilling over his hand. An intimacy to rival that which they have shared in bed. Is that how Will feels now, wielding these words against him? Does he appreciate the imbalance of power between them?

“I'm sorry,” Will says. “I—that wasn't—I didn't mean to say it like that.” Hannibal cannot say if it is a sign of foolishness or how well Will knows him, that he reaches out to take the knife from Hannibal’s suddenly nerveless fingers. 

Hannibal lets it go easily. _He_ will not fool himself into thinking he could use it against Will in this moment. Whether Will simply let the words slip, or he intends to exploit Hannibal’s feelings for him hardly matters. Hannibal’s blind devotion has taken them this far already.

Will ducks his head to meet Hannibal’s gaze, brows drawn together. “It's true,” he breathes.

And oh, how desperately Hannibal wants to believe him. It would take so little for Will to convince him of the truth of it--he has as good as spoken the words in the press of their lips together, and with the devotion he pays to Hannibal’s body. Hannibal has interpreted them from the delicate touch of Will’s hand against his cheek, and the unguarded expression on his face when he first wakes in the morning to see Hannibal watching him from across the pillow.

Yet for whatever reason, he has held onto them jealously, and Hannibal has had to remind himself time and again that where Will is concerned, he can take nothing for granted. So he waits, ready to be won over, clutching Will’s hand tightly in his own.

Will tugs at him, murmurs, “Come here,” leading them around the counter between them, until they are face to face without barrier.

Until Will, Hannibal was used to having complete control over his thoughts, emotions, and actions. Since that first day in Jack’s office, he has been compromised, though it took some time for him to acknowledge it. Now it is as though he is nothing more than the stripped down shell of the man he once was, acting merely on instinct, at the mercy of every want and need that grips him, led along through it all by Will’s tender machinations.

Hannibal sweeps Will into a desperate embrace and surrenders to impulse, crushing their lips together. It is too violent to be properly called a kiss, carried forward by all the old, jagged pain of betrayal and rejection, the fragile happiness they’ve created here together, and yes his love for Will, a sea in which he is caught adrift and battered helplessly about. Blind, abiding affection that makes him part from Will to catch a trembling breath and return to him with tenderness. His hands falter and fumble with the hem of Will’s shirt, seeking to be nearer, to touch him skin to skin.

Will brings his hands up to cup Hannibal’s cheeks. Hannibal can feel the purposefulness behind the touch when Will pulls away, resting their foreheads together and opening his mouth to speak. Hannibal can’t bear the idea of him retracting his statement, or clarifying in someway to make it _less_ that what it is.

“Will,” he can hear the pleading tone in his voice. How low Will has brought him. His hands wander of their own volition, up the smooth skin of Will’s back. He nuzzles down the line of Will’s nose in search of his kiss. “Let me.” 

Will allows it only for a moment, before he holds firm to Hannibal’s cheek and pulls free from him. He studies Hannibal’s face, eyes flicking back and forth. Whatever he sees there sends them crashing together, stumbling down the hall and through the door of their bedroom. Hannibal is aware of little more than Will’s mouth pressed to his, Will’s hands parting his shirt, Will’s fingers exploring his exposed chest.

They fall together onto the bed, limbs tangling in the urgency to divest one another of all clothing. Will rips his boxers open in his haste, and Hannibal’s gut surges in anxious lust. He sucks kisses down the stubbled column of Will’s neck, shakes with the need to hear the words from those lips again. Senseless, he begs, robbed of pride and autonomy. “Please, Will, tell me--”

Will says it again, eager and forceful, and the words sing through the air between them, along every open wound Will has left exposed on him, both stinging salt and soothing ointment at once. “I love you,” he says. And, “Hannibal, I'm so—I _ached_ for you, for years, and I thought having you would make it better, but it's even worse.”

Hannibal is too weak; he must close his eyes at this admission, for he knows the sensation all too well. It is his daily nourishment and his daily anguish. Tears rise unbidden and swell from the seam of his lashes, spilling down his cheeks. Will’s hot mouth chases them, hungry for his pain or wishing to ease it, or perhaps it is both, after all.

The wet, obscene sound of Will licking his own hand is all the more warning Hannibal has before Will’s cock seeks entry. Hannibal spreads his thighs in welcoming, tugs him forward with hands and legs, forces his body to relent to the dry press of Will against him. Will surges forward, and as if there were any part left of Hannibal which he has not already claimed, he seeks further purchase. “You're a part of me, Hannibal, I've got you inside me, but it isn't enough.” 

Will’s mouth burns along the line of Hannibal’s cheekbone as he speaks. “Being apart from you was painful to me, like losing a limb, and I tried to ignore it, but just the sight of you, behind that glass—”

Hannibal claws at him blindly, drags his hands down the sweaty line of Will’s back and digs into the meat of his ass, helps him in as deep as he can go. He holds Will there, clenched tightly between his thighs, pressed chest to chest, unwilling to let any space between them, spurred along by the desperate, guttural sounds Will makes as he rocks his hips into Hannibal’s, over and over. Will groans and slides their foreheads together, the frame of the bed shuddering with each thrust. “It was as if I'd been made whole, again,” he says.

Hannibal nods forlorn agreement. There is no point in speaking; the script is the same for them both. Yet something in Will calls out to him, as tremblingly needy as Hannibal himself, seeking validation of this unavoidable, inescapable collision. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly and teardrops streak down his cheeks, leaving his skin tacky and cold in their wake.“Every time we touch, we are remade,” he murmurs.

They move together as though one. Hannibal can read the depth of emotion on Will’s face, when he dares to look. That same wonder on his face by the cliffside, when he’d finally realised their potential. It is all Hannibal can do to hold on, hands clinging to Will’s sides and delighting in the play of muscles beneath them. He rolls his hips to meet each delicious, dragging thrust. 

Without lubrication, Will feels larger, and though pain sparks along in his wake, Hannibal savours the sensation. He relishes in it, along with the all-encompassing pleasure, unconcerned--nearly unconscious--of his own whimpering moans. Will snarls against his cheek and bites at his mouth. “I love you,” he says. His tone is more full of meaning than anything the words could convey on their own. His hand is insistent on Hannibal’s face and he falls still between his thighs. “Hannibal, look at me.”

 _Oh,_ Hannibal thinks wildly, _you don’t know what you ask of me_ , but he relents, as he always does, a wounded cry sounding out from his chest as he opens his eyes. Is this what Will sees when he looks at the two of them together? The cacophony of that limitless depth that lays dormant and unplumbed within them, twining around them in luxurious silken shadow? It plays over Will’s face, which takes on one beastly visage after the next.

Hannibal thought he knew madness, but it is clear now that he had no concept of how far reaching Will’s is, nor how deeply Hannibal himself is now mired in it. As completely as he has lured Will into the web of his design, Will has nimbly drawn him along and trapped Hannibal right alongside him. His fingers drag through Hannibal’s hair, his touch verging on unhinged. They’re both drowning in this, and clinging to one another to stay afloat, dragging each other down.

“I see you,” Will whispers, Hannibal’s eyes snap to his, finding land. Will kisses his forehead. “I see all of you, and I love you.”

Hannibal keens and arches up to meet Will’s kiss. He longs to believe what Will says, but if he were to truly see the black pitch _thing_ that resides beneath his skin, he would doubtless draw back in revulsion. And so he won’t disabuse Will of this notion that he has been seen and known. He will cling tightly to his last shreds of control, disguised as humanity.

For never before Will did Hannibal fully understand what it was to thirst for another’s touch, to ache in its absence and burn in its presence, and never feel his desire quenched. Will kisses him until he is raw and numb, and still Hannibal mouths back and drinks greedily from him his lips.

Hannibal tears Will’s shirt from him, needing to feel their skin pressed together, and then they’re rocking together again, each hitching movement driving wordless sobs from Hannibal’s lips. He’s been suspended at the precipice for an eternity, and it takes little coaxing from Will to cut the thread and send him spiralling to his death. His breath is torn from him as he falls apart, recalling the moment they broke the surface of the Chesapeake, gasping for air. 

The sound of waves crashing against the cliffside drowns out all else, and it takes several long moments for it to resolve into Will’s voice. A litany of _I love yous_ seared into Hannibal’s skin. Lips reverent against Hannibal’s mouth as Will fucks him, desperately chasing his own pleasure. He is beautiful and unrestrained as he comes, how Hannibal loves him best.

They lie together, Will collapsed on top of him. He wrestles off his jeans, but Hannibal’s joints are stiff and unwilling to loosen their hold of him. He has no control over the way he trembles, not that he would care to stop it, if he could. There is no use in denying how entirely he has allowed himself to be ruined by Will. Now let them both revel in the beautiful wreckage.

Gently, with deliberate movements, Will urges Hannibal’s arms to release him. He rolls Hannibal onto his side, and Hannibal allows himself to be manipulated. He is not yet ready to gather his thoughts, indulging instead in pure sensation--the ache left from their coupling; the cold, tightened tracks of skin left by his tears; the rough stroke of Will’s calloused hands down his side and around his waist. Hannibal laces his fingers through Will’s, holding their joined hands together against his chest, and then it is somehow easier to let out a steady breath and calm his trembling muscles.

Hannibal sighs and rolls onto his other side, taking Will’s hand where it falls on the sheets between them. If he could ever turn back time, there is still no way he could stop this. “I don't know what I've possibly done to deserve you,” he says.

The somber, reflective expression on Will’s face gives way to a grin. “I don't know what I've done to deserve you.” 

Hannibal quickens at the sight of his pure, unadulterated joy. “It must have been something truly wicked,” he says, and Will laughs again, draws nearer and rests his head against Hannibal’s shoulder, humming in agreement.

The tuna has been left out longer than Hannibal cares to think on, and yet he can’t find the desire to rise from the bed. In the wake of their shared passion, he can think only of the conversation that led to it, and Will’s revelation. There is nothing more Hannibal could ask of Will that what he has already willingly given, and still he offers this. _Demands_ it. 

Hannibal has fantasised of the day the two of them would hunt together in premeditation, though even before Will’s betrayal, he knew better than to assume it was a certainty. He could only lay down the vague outlines for Will to follow--how Will filled them in was entirely his own doing. And Will...Will is still finding his footing. To do this now, with his expectations raised by their encounter with The Red Dragon could be a huge misstep.

But it is Will’s to take, and Hannibal’s to follow.

“I have heard there are some lovely museum on Antigua,” Hannibal muses. And oh, the quiet, restrained excitement that blossoms on Will’s face at his words, almost childlike. There was never any other way that this was going to play out, Hannibal realises, and resigns himself.

“And Harmony Hall's winter concert is a programme of Shostakovich and Mahler, starting next weekend,” Will tells him, words spilling forth eagerly. “It runs through the beginning of February.” 

Hannibal takes in the beautiful creature before him, held within Will’s thrall. Will he ever know Will as entirely as he is known by him? He thinks, thumbing absently along the scar he left on Will’s forehead, even had he succeeded in his attempt to get inside, understanding would have eluded him. In the end, Will is a creature of his own making. 

“You are magnificent, Will. You must know that I will play whatever role you require of me,” Hannibal says, and means it without reservation.


End file.
